


queen of the underworld

by byronicmaiden



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Character Study, Female Kylo Ren, Feminist Themes, Gothic, Horror, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-05-03 19:18:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmaiden/pseuds/byronicmaiden
Summary: “She glows. Her heavy strands of black hair slide / Like serpents over somber, blood-red plush. / She stands there as a rose within the night. / The dark-red rose so deep within the night.”—Gertrud Kolmar,  Dark Soliloquy: The Selected Poems; “Rose in the Night”A collection of one-shots focusing on girl!Kylo Ren.





	1. pray for the garish light of day

**Author's Note:**

> pre–canon, child!ben.

The walls have a voice. The shadows have hands. Hands and a smile at the foot of her bed. When she was younger, she could run to her parents when the nights got rough. She could climb into their bed, hide beneath the covers, safe from everything. They said she was too old now. You’re thirteen, you can’t keep sleeping in our bed. Just go back to sleep. The shadows filled her lungs and choked her like black smoke. She would never sleep peacefully again, but had she ever really? Nightmares from the age of two. Odd and quiet from the age of three. Too emotional or too emotionless by age four. She couldn’t retreat to the comfort of her childhood. She’d never known such luxuries. Every night was a battle with the thing with sharp teeth that lived in her sheets, slithering in between her legs. Did the serpent corrupt Eve, or did she know what she was doing when she bit that apple and spat in God’s face? Red wickedness between her ingenuous teeth.  
⠀  
Nights were always hardest. Hiding beneath the covers, trembling in fear. Her nightgown pulled tightly around her. Visions of blood staining her front, her hands, her legs. Blood soaking her whole body, red droplets rolling down her face as flames lick her naked body. The temple burning, burning, burning. Flashes of Imperial battles and red lightsabers and burning bodies. Clashing blades and burning planets. She doubled over in her bed, sickness rising in her. She vomited down the front of her nightgown, a thin, watery bile. Something was dripping down her legs. She’d pissed herself. What an absolute embarrassment. This is your future Princess. A trembling little cry baby, soaked in her own filth. She buried her face in her bed, sobbing, trying not to wake anyone. She couldn’t let them know what she’d done.

Scrambling out of her sheets, ripping them from the bed, running to the refresher and ripping off her nightgown. The seams of her sleeves tearing. They won’t find out, they won’t find out. Struggling to wash the gown with tears in her eyes, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. She fell to the floor, cold and hard, pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed. She wished she would die. Only thirteen years old with thoughts of suicide in her heart. She wished the voice in her head would put her out of her misery. Euthanize her like a rabid animal. Sometimes the voices were too much. The hands were too greedy. Taking everything that wasn’t theirs to take.

She soon began wondering what the voices were. Did everyone have them? Did everyone see the flickering shadows in the night? She mused that she was being pursued by a ghost, an angel, a demon, a monster. But Mama always told her, monsters aren’t real. She knew that was a lie. Monsters are real, and they slept inside her wicked heart, coiled and hissing, ready to attack.


	2. (i’ll come back to haunt you) if i drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post tfa, pre-tlj. spoilers for solo: a star wars story.

⠀  
She first heard about the woman in one of her fathers stories. Stories she believed as a child, but as she grew older, she started to doubt. He told her about his daring adventures and thrilling escapades while her mother rolled her eyes behind him.  
⠀  
The first time she saw her, she’d caught glimpses of her fathers memories as he slept, her in her parents bed, curled between them, unable to sleep from another nightmare.  
⠀  
Accidentally prodding into people’s minds without their knowledge wasn’t something she enjoyed. Random bouts of dizziness and confusion as she was bombarded by someone else’s thoughts wasn’t pleasant, and often resulted in her dropping her mother’s hand in a crowd, her eyes going glassy, paralyzed in place as everyone’s thoughts prodded at her brain, trying to get inside.  
⠀  
In her fathers memories, she saw her, the mystery woman. Black dress, perfectly curled hair, silver jewelry. She saw her on a battlefield, flinging bombs into a crowd. She was so beautiful, like the darkness surrounding stars, or a blazing fire.  
⠀  
When she left home– Ben’s home, not her home, her home was on the Dark Side– she knew she’d have to dress differently. No more white robes or pink dresses. Only inky blacks and deep reds, hard corners and shiny metals. She stared at the woman- Qi’ra, she now knew–, at the flickering holo she’d managed to get ahold of.  
⠀  
The black dress and curled hair was meant to be a stinging reminder to her father, a jagged barb catching him. She didn’t tell her Master, oh no, he wouldn’t approve of this. Everything she did, he wanted to be an eco of Vader. Don’t spend time looking to anyone else. Vader, Vader, Vader. He was all that mattered. The mask that choked her breath and the lightsaber that singed her clothes, all of it was Vader.  
⠀  
So it would be her own dirty little secret, like she was doing something horrible. She sliced up the side of her dress, tried her best to get her hair into those perfect curls, added bits of silver everywhere she could. She tried to paint her nails but gave up halfway through her right hand, deciding it didn’t matter since no one would see them.  
⠀  
When she turned to face her father on the bridge, she hoped he knew. She hoped he saw this figure from his past, dark and mysterious and beautiful, and remembered everything that went wrong. A ghost from his past.  
⠀  
She sometimes daydreamed about this woman. What she was doing, what she like, if she was even still alive. Sometimes she imagined the two of them, together, off on some adventure. The mother and Master she never had, a romanticized Madonna of everything she wanted.  
⠀  
She hid these daydreams very well. Or, she thought she did.  
⠀  
Somehow, he knew. He could sense it. He dragged her into the temple, ripped the golden necklace from her, crushed it. He told her the story of the mystery woman, a weak fool who let her love destroy her. Who betrayed the only man who ever loved her, the man who took her in when the world threw her away.  
⠀  
 _She was weak. She was an idiot who let her love- her love for your father, the man who abandoned you- get in her way. She died alone, powerless. If you follow that path, you will too._  
⠀  
She wiped tears from her eyes, pathetically crumpled on the ground, _Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I am so sorry._  
⠀  
She still thought about her, of course, about Qi’ra. But she didn’t bother fussing with her hair, she burnt the old dress, staring furiously into the flames.  
⠀  
She didn’t regret it, though. Didn’t regret forcing her father to confront his past. It filled her with a warm but empty pride, knowing she made him hurt.  
⠀  
If Qi’ra had fallen pray to weakness, Beneve– Kylo– wouldn’t make the same mistake. Ultimately, Qi’ra had been selfish and ungrateful, blinded by sentiment. The darkness has no room for sentiment, compassion, caring. That was why her Master was always so hard on her. The darkness is patient and kind, but never soft.  
⠀  
Qi’ra let love blind her. Kylo would never make such a stupid mistake. She’d already succeeded where Qi’ra failed; she’d sliced Han Solo through the stomach, left him alone to die.


	3. rabid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-canon | the destruction of the jedi temple.

Everything is burning. Everything was always burning in her mind, in her dreams. But this was real. She couldn’t shut her eyes and put out the flames. Her white nightgown is stained bright red. It’s the blood of children. It’s the blood from her own tongue. Her hair is sticky with red, her heart is swelling and thumping, like a bird fighting against her bones.

She drops her saber only when she’s certain her uncle is dead. She’s smothered him beneath ruble and flames. He deserves it. They all deserve it. Her heart is a burning ball of charcoal now. She falls on her knees in the soot and sobs. She is a murderer now. Flames singe her skirts and fingers, burn her legs and feet, but she doesn’t care. She can’t feel it, she can’t feel anything but the heat of his saber, coming down to slit her in two. A virgin sacrifice. An animal to be put down.

She clutches burning coals in her fists. She has seen this a hundred times in her dreams. She pounds her fists on the ground and screams. Screams until her lungs are raw, sobbing, wailing at the sky. She is a murderer. A monster.

But somehow, she fees relief. No more hiding, no more pretending. Her freedom has come at the cost of her classmates lives. She wishes she could burn the whole world down. Slowly, she stands up on trembling legs and looks into the fire. A burning heap of wood and bodies, stacked in a funeral pyre. She smells the thick stench of burning flesh. A heavy sickness, thick as smoke. Slowly, she walks to the flames, entranced. Just a few more steps and it can all be over. A few seconds of patience and discipline to let the flames consume her. Her sleeve is falling off her shoulder and she can feel the heat singe her skin. She takes her first step into the flames and her bare feet sizzle. She takes another step and someone is grabbing her by the hair, yanking her out of the fire.

It’s him, her teacher, her wise tutor. He’s holding her away from the flames, in his arms. She’s sobbing and telling him, _I killed them, I killed them all, I did exactly what you wanted._  She’s burying her face in his shoulder as he strokes her dirty hair. _You were right about him. About all of them. Please, take me away from all this death._ He takes her in his arms and carries her to his ship. He holds her and comforts her and calls her _princess_ and _beautiful_ and _darling_. Called her _angel_ and _darkling_ and _little fire_. He washes blood from her hair and tells her how proud he is.

She can still feel the burning wreckage. The temple is burning, the bodies are burning, her gown is burning, the planet is burning is burning is burning is burning. Her world is a pit of hell-flames.


	4. pretty

Soft, soft, always too soft. Droplets of blood blossoming from tender flesh, like raindrops on a flower petal. Too small too weak too childish. Too weak too weak too weak.  
Weak.  
Weak like the rabbit clenched in the wolf’s jaws. Weak like the bird under the hunters boot. Weak like prey to predator. Nothing like Vader, never like Vader. Nothing but a pale imitation of his greatness.

How cliche, for the victimized sad girl to compare herself to pretty hurt things; rabbits, birds, shattered porcelain dolls, little lambs with blood soaked fleece, virgins in bloody white nightgowns. Sacrificial lamb, why are you crying?  
Why shouldn’t you be crying?  
You are nothing like the brave warriors in your books. You weep and whine and crumble.

She writhes in his teeth as he tears flesh from bone, spits the parts he doesn’t want to the ground. The other wolves come, take the leftovers, no part left behind. He hangs her from her wrists, slits open her stomach, pulls her insides out and devours them, blood spurting from his mouth as he tears out her arteries and lungs, filthy teeth stained with blood.

You let this happen because you’re weak. He bites into you, ignoring that your flesh is unripe. You let him do this. You let him take you.  
Let him take you.   
Let it take you.

There is no such thing as reclaiming yourself. Once a victim, always a victim.


End file.
